by Angela Huth
Ag laughed again, and put the socks back on.
‘Sticks, my legs,’ she said. ‘I was dreadfully teased at school.’ She made to get up. Joe put a hand under her elbow to help. ‘Thanks. I promised your mother I’d collect the eggs from the barn …’
‘I’ll do that. You go on in, see to the blister.’
‘Sure?’
‘Sure.’ Joe moved away. ‘I’ll be quicker than you. I know all their favourite places.’
‘Thanks very much.’
‘It’ll cost you something.’
‘My reflections on the Iliad? Really? Any time you like.’
Joe nodded. He cradled two brown eggs in his hand, that he had plucked from a hiding place. ‘To begin with,’ he said.
For the space of her hobbled journey back across the farmyard, Ag thought about Joe. Was it disappointment about Cambridge that made him so gruff? Was it the punishment of asthma upon his youth and regret at his inability to join the war? Or was he by nature an unforthcoming and gloomy figure? And why – perhaps an unnecessary question – did Janet’s presence on Sunday do nothing to cheer his spirits? For her own part, Ag would be delighted to find a kindred spirit with whom she could share ideas. She rather fancied herself bringing succour to the starved soul of Joe Lawrence. It was the sort of thing that would appeal to Desmond’s humour. In fact, Desmond would hardly fail to be interested in the whole curious Lawrence family of Hallows Farm … If he responded to her Christmas card, she would write to him in the New Year. It would be an excitement she instantly imagined herself looking forward to.
Ag began to compose a description of the very gradual unbending of father and son, and of the strong and dignified figure of the woman who gently tended her blister, for whom, already, Ag felt considerable affection.
That afternoon, after milking with Stella, Joe walked down to the field where his father and Ag were still working on the hedge. He helped Ag drag the heavier stuff to the large pile of wood and bramble that would be burned before nightfall. None of them spoke. The quietness of the autumn afternoon was broken by the soft-edged sound of Mr Lawrence’s slasher among thorn leaves: the snapping of small twigs, the drag of leafy branches over hard ground. Ag, proud of the length of her cleared ditch, could smell the pungency of her own sweat. She found herself working harder and faster than she had in the morning. Her blister no longer stung, her back no longer ached. The nearness of the earth affected her, as it did at home: the cloud of distant war was dissipated in the low light of the late sun, the long shadows thrown by the hedge, field, copse and men. Oh, Desmond, she thought.
At five, Mr Lawrence laid down his tools. ‘Time for burning,’ he said.
Joe took a box of matches from his pocket, bent down to light the base of the bonfire. In seconds it had caught, flames leaping high among the dry crackling stuff, their yellow matching a few high clouds in the sky.
They stood watching, Joe close to Ag, soon feeling the warmth. Ag had no idea how long the three of them remained there, unmoving: but suddenly she was aware of Mrs Lawrence and Stella at the gate. They carried a basket full of tin mugs, and a large thermos.
‘Tea,’ called Mrs Lawrence. ‘We thought it might be welcome.’
Indeed, by now a thin sharp prickle of chill, intimation of a cold autumn ahead, had crept round Ag’s body like a frame, while the centre of her being was still warm and sweating from her labours. She was glad of the hot, sweet tea, and of the flames on her face.
By the time Prue arrived the sun was low. Violet clouds were adrift among the yellow – gathering, consolidating, putting up an impenetrable defence against the last of the light.
Prue’s entrance on the scene, catching the last webs of light, was impeccably timed. She prettily climbed the gate, scarlet bow bobbing on curls whose blonde rallied with a last shimmer.
‘Field’s finished, all! How about that?’ She did not try to conceal her pride.
Mrs Lawrence handed her a mug of tea. ‘Well done,’ she said.
But Prue was looking for other praise. She cocked her head at Joe.
‘You didn’t think I could do it, did you?’
‘I didn’t have any opinion, as far as I remember.’
‘Like to come and see my furrows? Straight as a die.’
‘I will later.’
‘It’ll be dark in a minute. If you don’t come now, it’ll be too late.’
Joe slashed the fire. The confetti of ash made by his stick briefly arched before falling to the ground. The tiny red eyes went out as they touched the earth.
‘Then I’ll come in the morning,’ he said.
‘You mean beast, Joe Lawrence.’ Prue stamped her foot. Ag saw she was near to tears.
‘Will my opinion do, child?’ Mr Lawrence asked with a smile.
‘Suppose so. God, I’m hungry as a dog, aching all over, juddering from that bloody seat. My whole body’s juddering still – do you realize?’ Prue’s petulance made everyone uneasy.
Again she looked at Joe. He concentrated on more bashing of the flames.
‘Calm down,’ said Mr Lawrence. ‘We’ll all come and see your handiwork. Joe can take back the tools.’
As Joe went to pick them up, Ag turned to tell him she had left hers some way along the ditch. As she did so, she saw Ratty leaning over the gate, his face flame-pale under a dark hat. She felt a moment’s fear: the unexpected sight of him, the anguish in his face.
‘Ratty!’ she called. ‘Come and have some tea.’
Mrs Lawrence, too, turned to the gate. But Ratty had already gone.
‘He can smell a bonfire five miles off,’ Mrs Lawrence said. ‘He never misses one.’
‘Come on, you lot. Please. My ploughing—’
Prue impatiently opened the gate. Mrs Lawrence gathered empty mugs into her basket. All but Joe followed Prue into the lane. He remained behind to quell the fire, knock out the last remaining flames, and to spread the embers to die in the cool of the evening that was now falling fast.
Chapter 4
Edith Tyler was the first to congratulate herself on making her war effort. In Hinton Half Moon she led the way, when the rallying call came, to hand in aluminium saucepans to make Spitfires. She left herself just a kettle, a frying pan and one small saucepan, and thrived on the difficulties that this heroic parsimony caused.
Generous, noble and honourable though Ratty was often forced to agree she had been, the culinary inconvenience they now had to put up with fired him with an irritation that often he could not control. Lack of kitchen implements became the most frequent reason for their quarrels. In Edith’s relish of these rows Ratty was able to discern a malicious pleasure in taunting him that, he feared, might not cease even when the war was over. He increasingly suspected that victory would not be celebrated by Edith re-stocking with saucepans, and she would make some new excuse to keep the kitchen under-supplied.
On the evening of the bonfire, Ratty walked home with slow, reluctant step. He had set out, lured by the sweet smell of thorn smoke, to enjoy himself: he always enjoyed a bonfire. But he had arrived too late. By the time he reached the gate a tableau was in place round the flames. He felt that to enter would be to interrupt, to intrude. Nothing unusual about the sight of the boss and Mrs L., of course: it was the girls who had cast their spell. Unseen, Ratty had gazed for a few moments on their fresh young faces, eyes full of the sort of wonder that never dulls when confronted by flames, and a million unspeakable regrets had gathered in his breast mysteriously as the swifts overhead were gathering in the sky. What were those regrets? Ratty had not liked to question himself too deeply: something to do with missed chances, unfulfilled love, wasted youth. The tall one with the short, dark hair – Ag – she was the one who had nearly been his undoing … the way she called to him asking him to join them – thoughtful, kind, such sweetness in her unformed face, lighted by the flames. He would almost call it holy.
Ratty had been tempted to hurry to her side, accept a mug of tea from Mrs L., join the ma
gic circle. But even as he put a hand on the latch to open the gate, he knew he could go no further: he would be committing himself to too much enjoyment, a sensation Ratty had guarded himself against for years. He had learned from experience: on the occasions he had allowed himself unexpected moments of deep happiness, the return to reality, the barrenness of his life, had been too cruel.
So now he walked the lane, through a rising ground mist, with mixed feelings. On the one hand, he would have liked so much to have been part of the brief group, the fire a symbol of triumph at the end of a hard day’s work. On the other, he knew that had he allowed himself to do this, the inevitable homecoming, and Edith’s sneering, would have added further pain to his corroded heart.
Edith! Ratty saw her face in the evening sky, jaws working furiously in response to some imagined insult, unfairness or domestic difficulty. Was it his fault that she had turned so swiftly into one of life’s enemies? When Ratty reached the cottage he paused for a moment on the front path, looking into the lighted window of the kitchen. Why hadn’t the bloody woman put up the blackout? He had to tell her every day. They’d already been reprimanded by the warden a couple of times. Why couldn’t she understand the necessity of any war effort, or cooperation, beyond saucepans for Spitfires? The selfish cow … Ratty could see her at the sink, peeling potatoes with the same defensive hunch as she darned, making the knife, like the needle, seem fierce as a dagger. And why weren’t the bloody potatoes on, cooking? Ratty’s hunger was a twisting fist in his stomach. He went in.
‘No, your tea’s not ready yet so there’s no use looking like that,’ was Edith’s greeting. The smell of frying bacon increased Ratty’s hunger. ‘Potatoes not boiled yet,’ she added triumphantly, ‘then there’s the carrots to do. I don’t know how you expect me to get it all up together, just the single saucepan …’
‘If we had just one more …’ Ratty trailed off. He knew any such suggestion was a waste of breath.
‘The command from the government was: give up your saucepans for Spitfires.’
‘It wasn’t a command,’ Ratty sighed.
‘Good as. Besides, if I bought another one I’d have to give that up, wouldn’t I? Logic. Bare necessities are what we’ve got to put up with. Hardships of war. No point grumbling.’
‘Is there a cup of tea while we’re waiting?’
‘Tea, Ratty Tyler? Don’t you listen to a word I say? I told you last night: I said now there’s rationing we’ve got to cut down to three cups a day. There’s a war on.’ She began to scrape carrots. ‘We’ve got to do our bit. There’ll be rewards. A week or so ago, when that Spitfire flew over, I left the shop to watch it. Noisy thing. Still, I thought, Spitfires are defending our country, and if it hadn’t been for my own very small effort – just the six saucepans and cooking pots – that very Spitfire might not be there now. It might have been held up in the factory, waiting for a bit more aluminium to make the tip of the wing. For all I knew, my saucepans were a small part of the undercarriage of the plane that was going over our house. That gave me a good feeling, I can tell you. That made me more determined than ever it’s not our business to grumble if the carrots have to take their turn with the potatoes. Trouble is, you’ve got no vision. You can’t see things like that.’
‘I’ll go and deal with the blackout,’ said Ratty. ‘My war effort,’ he muttered under his breath.
Later, sensing the vegetables were still far from ready, Ratty went to sit in the chilly front room to listen to ITMA on the wireless. But, distracted, he turned the sound down low, hardly listening. Instead, his eyes fell on the framed photograph of Edward – Edward Tyler, their only son, killed in action in the last war.
Stored in boxes in the attic were bundles of letters from Edward, written from the trenches, many of their envelopes mud-splattered. Strangely, neither mud nor ink had faded. Ratty knew most of these letters by heart. The descriptions of a soldier’s life were so extraordinarily vivid that Ratty felt he had shared the experience of every sensation with his son: sometimes he used to think Edward would be a writer when the war was over. He had the talent, surely. Ratty never mentioned this to Edith: she would have scoffed at so unmanly a suggestion. She probably had no idea the letters still existed. Unsentimental woman. Ratty had found her screwing up Edward’s letters as she read them. If it hadn’t been for Ratty’s secret hoarding, there would be no voice, no words from Edward left. Edith even threw away the official letter that came to announce Edward had been mentioned in despatches. Ratty would never forgive her for that. Her lack of pride in her own son’s courage was proof of her paucity of imagination: she was unable to understand or picture the horror, the fear, the bravery of a life unknown to her. She had never been able to read a face, a heart, a soul.
And what a funny old war, this one, compared with the last one, thought Ratty. So much of it, to date, had been spent in suspense and anticipation since the Polish invasion. The Battle of Britain had meant a little excitement and anxiety for six weeks: the Blitz in London, for all its horrors, had little effect on the rest of the country. Raids on the south coast were rare. In rural areas what you were left with were the frustrations of wartime regulations: rationing and blackouts, shortages of farm workers and clock menders – Ratty’s broken alarm clock caused him great sadness when he discovered every clock mender for twenty miles had been called up. Indeed, here in Dorset you could be forgiven for thinking the war did not exist. The only thing that never faded, through every waking hour of the day, and troubled the dreams at night, was the tension, the constant anticipation of unknown possibilities. If Edward had lived, Ratty would have enjoyed discussing the two wars, the philosophical aspects of the loathsome thrill of danger, the peculiar pulling together of people by a common cause.
Ah! Ratty would have enjoyed discussing that and a thousand other subjects that held no interest for his wife. If Edward had lived – wife and family nearby, maybe, grandchildren coming to their grandfather to learn the ways of the land – life might have been very different. As it was, all Ratty could do was to try to carry out his son’s last wish. In a letter that Edward had not known would be his last, in which he had been full of his usual humour, optimism and hope, he had ended with the binding words Take care of Mum till I come back, Dad … Which meant, when Edward was blown up a week later, take care of Edith for ever.
‘So there you are,’ she scoffed, standing at the door, interrupting his reflections. ‘One moment you’re grumbling because the food’s not ready, then when it’s on the table you’ve vanished.’
Ratty got up. He was no longer hungry.
‘What’ve the girls been up to?’ Edith sniffed.
‘The tall one was hedging with Mr L. That’s all I know. There was a bonfire this evening.’
‘Huh! Trust you not to miss a bonfire.’
‘I didn’t stay.’
‘I should hope not. Standing round bonfires when there’s work to be done.’
Ratty, tired, tried to deflect her mind from the girls. By now he had learned to his cost that they were a lethal subject.
‘It’s been uncannily quiet for a week or so, hasn’t it?’ he offered. ‘I’ve got a feeling in my bones there’s going to be a raid, soon. Something’s going to happen.’
‘If your bones are as full of silly feelings as your head, then there’s nothing to fear,’ said Edith. ‘All gloom and doom as normal. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
She handed him a plate of bacon rashers, boiled potatoes and carrots. She watched eagerly as he pushed his knife into the underdone vegetables, testing. Just as eagerly she waited for him to complain, her answer about Spitfires all ready to shout him down. But Ratty, no fight left in him this evening, had his own, small revenge.
‘Very good,’ he said.
At supper that night at Hallows Farm, Stella thought she detected a smell of thorn smoke that clung to them all, more powerful than the smell of rabbit stew and mashed swede. By now she was used to the dining-room, with its cl
umsy dark furniture and ugly light, and, during the day, often found herself looking forward to the suppers there, Mrs Lawrence’s huge plates of food filling their hungry stomachs. There were still silences at meals, but they were easier. Sometimes a proper discussion flowered, and there was laughter. Mrs Lawrence would reminisce about her childhood on a farm in Devon; her husband would sometimes mention his concern for his brother Robert, who farmed in Yorkshire, and was suffering from terminal cancer; Prue would spend time between courses examining her hands, which she claimed were a dreadful red from the Lavalord that went into the bottle-washing water.
‘Blow me down if I don’t end up a fright, all this manual labour,’ she would complain. ‘Raw hands, filthy nails, weather-beaten skin, stinking of cow muck … Will there be a man in the world left to want me?’
This last question, with a slight cock of the head in Joe’s direction, observed by Stella and Ag, was ignored by Joe who always made the minimum contribution to the meal.
Tonight, Mr Lawrence, after a day at his favourite occupation, and filled with the agreeable thought of further hedging tomorrow, was in rare good humour.
‘Tomorrow,’ he said, ‘it’s time to be rewarded for your first week’s good work with an entirely new sort of job – the kind of job every land girl in the country most probably dreams of. Can you imagine what that might be, Prue?’
Prue, in a pink crochet jersey with tiny crystal beads sewn to its collar, blushed.
‘Why you should pick on me for an idea, I can’t think,’ she smiled back. ‘Still, if I had to say … I’d say a day on a tractor with a nice little shelter to protect me from the wind and rain, and a velvet padded seat.’
Mr Lawrence laughed. ‘Out of luck, I’m afraid. No: tomorrow it’s dagging, and checking for foot rot. Sheep.’
‘It’s what? And what?’ Prue’s expression of horror was comical.
